


This Is Where I Sleep

by onewasturning



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Camping, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onewasturning/pseuds/onewasturning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Louis go camping while on break and make some memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Where I Sleep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loube](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loube/gifts).



> I never thought I would write non-au, but here we are. This is shameless, unapologetic and incredibly hyperbolic fluff, and if you're expecting quality, well.
> 
> Thanks to Hannah/straw-harrys (and Emeli Sandé) for title inspiration <3

The chill of the air hits Harry as soon as he steps out of the tent, dry and biting through his clothes. Little sunlit warmth filters between the branches of the trees, and numbness is already beginning to seep into his fingers, making them ache at the joints. He pulls his beanie down over the icy tips of his ears and wayward curls, and tries to ignore the temptation, almost too strong to resist, to simply slip back inside, pull the zipper right down to the ground and shut out the cold. Snuggle up close to his favourite boy.

December’s dawn comes gradually, and Harry’s movements meet its measure, deliberate and careful. For an hour after he had woken he had watched the shadows being swept away by the murky light; had watched them play out in stop motion across the canvas with every slow blink of his eyes, turning his head like he was one of Blake’s sunflowers. The second heartbeat drumming against his ribs had kept even time, cataloguing the seconds of their small eternity; the warm body beside him the one constant, linking fingers and tangled roots.

It may just be enough. Even now, with the imprint of hot breath on his neck and soft lips at his throat slowly fading into still air, it may just be enough. 

It’s been three days since they left London, packed the Range Rover with stacks of blankets and an ice-packed cool box, and began the four-hour journey to a small camping site just over the Welsh border. Exiting the city, Louis’ eyes had turned from sleep dull to wide and vibrant as the scenery had begun to change – as the cars on the roads had begun to thin and the trees thickened, and the spaces between villages grew like vines. By the time they had passed the last sign of civilisation, a small town called Hay-on-Wye renown for its bibliophilic culture, it had felt like every exhale thereafter was bringing up ghosts, exorcising London from their crowded bodies. And to Harry London was dinners and friends and constant attention, and something like steadiness. But sometimes it felt as if every inch of the space he lived in was being invaded and crawled into by persistent bees. Sometimes, he needed the reminder that there was only one person to whom he really belonged. In their isolated wilderness, void of campers who know better than to sleep out in the cold, and curled up by campfire exchanging slow kisses, Harry has been in a constant loop of remembering. 

They haven’t much time left is the thing – a couple hours at most before they have to head back to the city. A couple hours more and Harry will be sitting alone on an east-bound flight, while Louis will be at home, most probably trying to convince one of the boys to visit so he can avoid unpacking. It won’t be the first time that they’ve had a continent between them, and they can survive without each other, they can. But when tethering strings are pulled tight and restless nights turn into restless mornings, recollection is a fickle beast.

However, this – the past few days – is something he can cling to. Surrounded by a dense thicket of oak and beech and shedding larch, Harry can pretend that the forces that push them in are shielding and nurturing. That perhaps the frostbitten forest is biding time for them, if only for a few hours more.

Ignoring the remains of the small campfire already burnt down to black and white ash, Harry retrieves the portable gas stove from the back of the Range Rover. He takes out the kettle and carefully loops his fingers through the handles of their ceramic mugs, which he can only hazily recall placing in the car the night before, sometime between cleaning them and being entertained by Louis’ drunken striptease around the fire. 

It had taken an incredible feat of willpower not to damn everything and pick him up right then and there; drag him into the tent as he had giggled and sung loudly into the wilderness, trying not to fall into the flames as he peeled off his socks. Harry remembers how the fire had made his skin glow smooth and gold; how it had deepened the hollows of his cheeks and the crinkles of his eyes, and the lines along his body that he knows well. And Louis was beautiful, he was always beautiful, but right then he might have been a spirit summoned from the flames, sent to ensnare and draw him beyond the veil with his wicked ways. Harry would have gone. He would have followed him anywhere, radiant and laughing and head-over-fucking-heels drunk on a case of Corona and love enough to drown them both. It’s only the tinge of a hangover that still blurs his vision that indicates last night wasn’t actually just a fever dream.

Battling on for the promise of soothing tea, Harry sets up the stove, a dinky orange contraption he’d gotten from his step-dad, which he’d had to use last night to salvage the sausages that Louis had insisted he could cook over the fire. (He couldn’t). He boils the water and sets the tea bags in the mugs – one black and one red and both with faint cracks down the side – before pouring in the milk and water. Letting them steep, because he knows Louis likes his tannins strong enough to bite, Harry heads back into the tent, removing his shoes before ducking inside.

Louis is still fast asleep – can sleep through nearly anything now that he’s gotten used to Harry’s snoring – and the blankets are pulled so high they’re almost covering his head, leaving brown tufts peeking out at the top. Harry knows he’s naked underneath, because his clothes are still folded to the side, exactly where Harry had placed them after they were flung haphazardly around the campsite. He shrugs off his jacket and pulls off his beanie, places them next to Louis’ clothes before slipping under the covers, causing Louis to shudder at the sudden vent of cool air on his exposed skin. 

With movements so engrained they’re practically innate, Harry moves in close, hands sliding down Louis’ ribs before tugging him in at the dip of his waist. Even in sleep Louis immediately relaxes into him, angles finding their fit. Like a hundred times before, Louis turns to press his face against Harry’s chest, and fists a hand loosely at his waist. Like a hundred times before, Harry burns with it, his yearning, how much this love threatens to consume him the more it grows. He is so incredibly, so irreversibly gone for this boy.

It’s not long before Louis begins to squirm, arching forward and curling deeper like each bone and muscle has known how to do since he was eighteen years old. Back then, the only thing more overwhelming than standing on a stage and being beamed into the homes of millions of people was the urge to wrap himself around the awkward sixteen-year-old kid smiling next to him, stars in his eyes brighter than stage lights and igniting the stardust under his skin. In those days everything was so new and exhilarating and seemingly uncontrollable. It had taken every ounce of effort to draw themselves away from each other, everything they did ten times more amazing because they got to do it with each other. In a lot of ways it’s still the same. But now the feelings are comforting and familiar, and the stars in their eyes have evolved into supernovas. 

Louis presses in and squirms against his side, demanding attention even when half asleep, and yeah, there are some things that will never change. 

When Harry looks down, Louis blinks blearily up at him, little bits of sleep crusting at the corners of his eyes, hair wild and forehead furrowed in confusion. 

“Harry?” Louis mumbles, a frown forming on his lips and fist tightening at his side. “Why are you wearing clothes?”

Harry laughs, the sound jolting Louis against him. Of course that would be the first thing Louis noticed. 

“I went outside and made tea,” he says, trailing his hands down Louis’ back soothingly. “Didn’t want to freeze my bits off.”

Louis shakes his head, still combating the remnants of sleep. His words come out rough and slow. “Wouldn’t want that. Quite like your bits. Might miss them.”

“Yeah, me too,” Harry says, smiling. “We’ve had some good times together.”

His thumb strokes gently at Louis’ skin, bare and warm, and Louis hums a pleased sound into his chest.

“Mm. Good times,” Louis agrees, leaning forward to place a soft kiss against his sternum through his shirt.

“Yeah,” Harry says softly. “Like, remember that time in Dallas?”

Louis shuffles up, his toes pressing on Harry’s shins, and noses at his collarbone. 

“Yeah,” he says at an even pace. “Got you off backstage. Five minutes before we had the signing.”

“Mmm,” Harry murmurs. His eyes still glaze and tongue still sticks sometimes at the memory. “And that time, after our last show in Sheffield?”

Louis sucks lightly at the skin of his throat, mouthing lazily. Harry’s hands grip a little tighter as the last clinging chill from outside is discarded away with a shiver. 

“Barely made it into the hotel room before you fucked me into the wall.”

“And you—”

“—cried,” Louis finishes, not looking up from his ministrations. “I thought we agreed never to talk about that again, hm?”

Harry grins, slipping his hands down to palm at Louis’ arse, and causing him to shift his hips forward with a soft, shaky breath. “No, I don’t think I agreed to that. I do remember Liam not being able to look us in the eye the next morning.”

Louis shrugs, moving up to kiss the underside of his jaw. “Serves him right. People invented earplugs for a reason. Was probably eavesdropping anyway, pervy bastard.”

Harry’s breath hitches as Louis’ hands work their way under his shirt and trail their way up his back, distracting him like only he knows how.

“And last night,” Harry says after a pause, trying to gather quickly dissipating tendrils of thought. “Do you remember that?”

“Babe,” Louis mouths into his chin, “I think it’s going to be a week before I’m even capable of going one second without thinking about last night.”

Harry lets out a short laugh before finally bending down far enough for Louis to capture his lips, drawing his bottom lip gently into his smiling mouth, then licking wetly into the heat. Louis sighs appreciatively, parting his lips and pressing forward with intent. His hands slip down again to pull Harry’s hips forward, and he can feel the hot length of Louis’ morning wood against his leg.

“Want you,” Louis murmurs into his mouth, like it’s not completely obvious. “Always want you.”

Harry’s fingers press indents, their placement in perfectly spaced bruises, because he too wants, always always always wants, with no hope or fear of ever stopping.

He gets shuffled out of his shirt, mouths barely breaking apart long enough to pull the material up between them, and then Louis’ hands are working expertly at his jeans, knowing the exact twist and push to get them rolling down in one fluid motion.

Louis is always a little bossy in the mornings, wanting to stretch and manipulate Harry’s body to its limits – until he’s nothing more than a liquid, pliable mass of limbs beneath him, and all that he can focus on is Louis’ touch and Louis’ mouth and Louis’ body, smooth and firm and warm. There’s a sense of control there that’s absent at night, when he wriggles and quivers under Harry’s hands, and lets himself be manhandled onto his dick, pounded into until his fingers don’t even have enough energy to scratch a red raw path down Harry’s back, and sticky tears cling to the dark curls of his eyelashes. Last night had Louis collapsed face down on the futon, fingers digging into the blankets with every whimper that escaped his mouth, while Harry had held him up by his hips and fucked into him, skin bruising and slapping obscenely with every thrust.

But now it’s morning, clean slate. And right now, fully awake and wanting, Louis moves with purpose and conviction. He pushes Harry onto his back and wriggles between his legs, dragging himself up his body in a way that has Harry’s toes curling into the futon.

Lips find each other once more, and for a moment it’s nothing more than wet heat, mouths sliding together and tongues touching and licking. Beneath the blankets warmth gathers to the point of discomfort, but Harry barely notices. His hands trace their way down the curve of Louis’ spine and into the ridiculous dip of his back, his skin burning hot under his hands. Louis nips at his bottom lip, then his chin, then his jaw, before moving back up to sigh into his mouth, tongue curling deeper. He’s such a solid weight above him, both calming and rousing in his familiarity, and Harry presses up more intently as if to swallow him whole, moaning when Louis matches the pressure, wanting to cave without giving in.

One hand moves sneakily between them, stroking leisurely up Harry’s length, and he hardens quickly within Louis’ palm.

“Louis,” Harry gasps, when he thumbs over the head, nothing more than a brief tease.

“Just showing my appreciation for your bits,” Louis says with a grin against his lips, before releasing his hold on him altogether.

Harry frowns, going to grab at Louis’ wrist and bring his hand back where it belongs, but Louis swats him away with a laugh.

He sits back on his heels, the blankets pulling across his shoulders like a secondary tent, shadowing them both. The morning light has illuminated the red canvas overhead, turning the rebellious wisps of Louis’ sweat-matted hair into a gold and bronze halo, and his eyes a darker sapphire blue that remind Harry of stealing kisses in the pool of his step-dad’s bungalow and whispered midnight promises. Just like those nights, Louis’ eyes crinkle into a smile, the one that he knows is just for him, and Harry loves that, loves _him_ , so much more than any one person should be capable of loving another.

Harry reaches out a hand, just wanting to be closer, and Louis understands, always does; simply grasps it in his own, pressing a kiss into his palm before entangling their fingers.

“I really fucking love you, you know?” he says, still smiling. And Harry should be used to it by now, but there’s such an immediate rush of happiness and affection, it leaves him beaming and breathless.

“I love you, too,” Harry croaks out. Louis laughs, leaning forward to kiss the butterfly in the middle of his chest, rubbing his cold nose against it before sinking lower once more to where his cock rests, red and hard.

The first puff of breath against his cock has it twitching against his stomach, but he doesn’t have time to react before Louis is sucking the head into his mouth without ceremony, tongue lapping at the tip. One small hand still gripping Harry’s, and the other pressed into the pale skin of his thigh, anchor him to the spot as Louis works his way down, and Harry can only watch in wonder as his dick slides through pink lips, the wet heat leaving him gasping, light-headed.

Harry’s free hand comes to rest at Louis’ cheek and his eyes flutter open, lashes smudged darker than last night’s ashes when he tilts his face into Harry’s palm. His cock throbs in Louis’ stilled mouth, and he takes a moment to skitter his fingers along the hollow, pressing in to feel its pulse. Louis is so lovely, so calm in a way he never is with anyone else, even with a cock between his lips and a blush tainting his cheeks under Harry’s gaze, that Harry fights a short internal battle between fucking into his mouth or recording every single thing about this moment in his memory. Then Louis is making the decision for him, moving Harry’s hand to the back of his head so he can twist the soft strands between his fingers, and sinking lower once more, tongue running along the underside of his cock.

Louis begins to bob up and down in earnest, causing the blankets to fall from his shoulders and Harry’s toes to flex and scrunch inwards. He wishes the blanket were even lower so he could see the curve of Louis’ arse, the valley at the base of his spine and the bruises like mementos from last night. Louis is beautiful, always is, but bathed in the red-tinted light of the morning he exudes a sort of soft serenity that contrasts indecently to the way his tight pink mouth is wrapped around Harry’s length.

The image has him moaning, hips punching upwards reflexively so that he brushes against the back of Louis’ throat, his fingers squeezing Louis’ in what must be a painful grasp. Louis simply hums in encouragement, despite the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, and swallows around him so that the hair around the base of Harry’s cock tickles at his nose.

It’s hard not to fall apart on every slick downward glide of Louis’ lips, and from years of experience Harry knows there’s no point trying really. So he lets himself melt into the sheets beneath him, pushing into the warmth of Louis’ mouth with breathy moans. It’s wet and hot and perfect and nearly unbearable, and soon Harry’s chasing the end with aimless intensity, tugging at Louis’ hair in warning. Louis simply pets Harry’s thigh, sucks a little more fiercely, and then Harry’s coming, breath freezing in his chest and back arching up from the ground. His hand fists tightly at the back of Louis’ head, jerking stiffly until the only points of his body he can feel, that he can be bothered caring about, are where Louis’ throat is convulsing around him and the white-knuckled fingers threaded through his.

Louis swallows with practised ease, finally releasing his cock to press gentle kisses into the crease of his thigh until Harry has stopped quaking beneath him and his lungs have stopped shuddering. He crawls up Harry’s spent body and curls into his side, so that Harry can feel the length of his dick pressing into his hipbone. Their hands are still clasped between their chests and Harry lets go to wind his arm around Louis’ back, hauling him closer. 

Louis has a smug grin on his face at Harry’s winded state, and there’s a small trace of come at the corner of his mouth, which Harry can’t help wiping off with his thumb, pressing it to Louis’ bottom lip. He watches as Louis takes his finger into his mouth, sucking in his cheeks and batting his eyelashes coquettishly, like Harry might have forgotten what just happened all of two minutes ago. His eyes are still crinkled in self-satisfied glee, and he begins rutting against Harry shamelessly with these fluid little rolls of his hips. He’s such a brat, really. He’s such a tease. Harry loves him so much it hurts.

Harry pulls his thumb from Louis’ mouth and replaces it with his lips, tasting the bitter remnants on Louis’ tongue.

“C’mon, babe,” he urges quietly between kisses, squeezing at his arse. “C’mon.”

Louis looses a whimper into his mouth and hooks a leg over Harry’s, thrusting harder. Harry can tell he’s close, and when he dips his hand a little lower, slides a finger over his still sensitive rim, it’s like the discomfort sparks the memory; has him coming with an open-mouthed gasp into Harry’s neck.

Harry holds him close through his orgasm, and lets Louis release messily between them so that it smears up both their stomachs. Like Louis did for him, Harry holds him through the aftermath, pressing his lips to his temple until the rattling of his small body dims like a sigh.

The sun has inched higher in the sky, a reminder that time is moving through the stillness. But even though they’re sticky and sweaty and Louis’ come is drying on their skin, right now, moving away doesn’t even feel like an option. Harry can feel Louis’ heart beating a solid rhythm against his, and his mouth kissing constellations into his shoulder, and those never-fading sparks burning, burning, brighter than sunlight.

Louis eventually shifts, flopping back onto the pillows and cracking a yawn. He stretches within Harry’s long-limbed grasp, before winding his arms around his neck, smiling softly up at him. It still awes him – hits him deep and something stupid – that these are sides to Louis that only he will ever see; the confidence and the trust and the everything in between. And no matter what, he’ll always have this.

Harry cups Louis’ face and presses a lingering kiss to his forehead, lightly stroking his cheek.

“We’ve got to head back soon,” Harry says, lips moving along Louis’ hairline.

“You made me tea,” is Louis’ response, seemingly apropos of nothing. “I love you for that.”

Harry nuzzles the top of Louis’ sleep-mussed hair. There probably aren’t enough words for all the things that he loves about his boy.

“I think it’s probably gone cold now. Should make a new one,” Harry says, but he thinks it might be okay when every single part of him is thrumming with warmth.

“No,” Louis says immediately, pulling him closer. “Stay. I absolutely forbid you to leave.”

They have to go soon. They have to go, but Harry obeys and draws the blanket up over them, settles in close. 

It’s cold outside, but not enough to freeze this moment in time. So, Harry holds on and Louis stays still against his body, and he imagines each second expanding with every breath within their slowly expanding chests. 

And he remembers, remembers.

**Author's Note:**

> For Liz <3


End file.
